


escape artistry

by nocturnes



Category: DBSK | Tohoshinki | TVfXQ | TVXQ
Genre: Hotel Sex, M/M, RPF, Unhealthy Relationships, broken relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-08
Updated: 2011-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-07 14:16:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturnes/pseuds/nocturnes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Yoochun calls, Changmin can never tell him no.</p>
            </blockquote>





	escape artistry

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://sin_delight.livejournal.com/profile)[**sin_delight**](http://sin_delight.livejournal.com/) for [](http://helpbrazil2011.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://helpbrazil2011.livejournal.com/)**helpbrazil2011**. ♥
> 
> It's in second person because that helped me flesh his character out a little better in my mind. Based on [this](http://i188.photobucket.com/albums/z208/twilit_rain/tumblr_l4kkn4uXYn1qzr04eo1_500.jpg) prompt. Thank you to [](http://scarletpeonies.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://scarletpeonies.livejournal.com/)**scarletpeonies** for giving me the song lyrics that also inspired this. :)

_Wonder why I'm so caught of guard when we kiss_  
 _I'd rather live my life in regret than do this_  
 _What happened to the love we both knew, we both chased_  
 _Hanging on a cigarette you need me you burn me you'll burn me._

\- "Disintegration" by Jimmy Eat World

\--

“I don’t know if this is a good idea…”

“Please,” he says. “I miss you.”

Your breath hitches in your throat at those words, and you wonder if he knows that was exactly what you have been waiting to hear. You have never been able to say no to him.

“Okay,” you say, “okay.”

“Good. See you there.”

He hangs up without a word and the dial tone beeps obnoxiously in your ear. You feel a headache springing up behind your left eye. You steel your resolve, because you made a promise to yourself to be stronger.

You ignore the weight in your stomach telling you that this is a bad idea. You still want this, even if you’re not sure if he does. At least not in the same way that you want him.

You snap the phone shut and allow it to fall from your fingers onto the floor.

Maybe what you need is a backup plan.

\--

“Changmin-ah? Where are you going?”

“Out, hyung. I’ll be back late.”

“Take care of yourself, okay?”

“I’m not five years old.”

“Just… be careful.”

\--

You’re nervous on the way there, twitchy. Yunho had looked at you on the way out, stared you down with one of those protective leader expressions that he has perfected over the years, and you had tried very hard not to feel guilty.

You do anyway.

You know how bad _he_ is for you, but somehow, you don’t care. He has managed to work himself through the rational filters you have spent so much time constructing. Seeing him is a need now, something you are not sure you could resist even if you were to try.

You tell yourself that you don’t care if you are more invested in this than he is. You tell yourself not to question why you feel the same as you always had, while he seems more aloof and unaffected each additional time you meet.

The words are unvoiced, but they still crumble like ash on your tongue. Rejection tastes bitter at the back of your mouth and you hate it, because up until now, you had never thought of yourself as the sort of person someone would turn away.

You’re not, you think, you’re definitely not.

You hate how that doesn’t ring true anymore. 

You just wish it were a little easier to hate him, too.

\--

Your hands shake during the elevator ride up to the eleventh floor. The walk down the hallway stretches several days long in your mind. The days when you used to crawl into his bed in a room just down the hall from yours have disappeared, and you wonder how they slipped from your hands without your notice.

Room 1103. You hesitate before you knock, three times slow, two fast. He had wanted an indicator, a secret code between the two of you. At the time, you had thought it was cute.

You hold your breath as you hear the lock slide free.

\--

“I’ve been waiting a while.”

“I’m sorry. I got stuck in traffic. I took a cab.”

“Did you pay off the driver?”

Standard policy. “Yes.”

“Good.” He grins, and despite everything, you still find it as beautiful as you always have. It’s more than a little disarming. You wonder if that makes you weak.

He fists his hands in the front of your shirt and pulls you into the room. You are stronger than he is, but he’s the one who is rough with you. Back when you used to live together you had liked that for the sense of control and lack thereof it gave you simultaneously.

Now, when he slams your back against the door and kisses you so harshly that you taste copper, you start to wonder if these meetings are really what you should want at all.

In the end, it’s him, and that means the answer will always be a resounding _yes_.

Or at least it used to be.

\--

His skin burns too hot against yours, a hand on your inner thigh spreading you open for his searching fingers. His tongue on your cock makes you moan and arch into him, invoking the name of some deity with whom you are no longer familiar. You can feel his smirk against your skin.

In the slight pause when he pulls away and you shiver (from need or cold, you’re not sure), you hear a foil packet rip open, a hiss at his own hands on his cock. Then he’s hovering over you again, pushing inside of you without warning. It hurts but you don’t say anything.

He moves and hits the right spot inside of you, and the burn begins to fade into something much better. His name becomes a litany spilling from your lips. His hands on your hips squeeze hard enough to leave bruises.

You’re over the edge before you know it. Loss of control comes easily with him. As the aftershocks race through you to the ends of your limbs, you watch him still moving above you. He’s just as beautiful as he always has been, almost unchanged from how he was at seventeen. You want to reach out to stroke his hair, to pull his mouth down to yours and coax him into feeling as good as he just made you feel.

When he comes you want to tell him to look into your eyes so that you can watch him fall apart. The desire remains unvoiced, lost somewhere in the back of your throat.

He keeps his eyes closed.

\--

He lies pressed up against you, his chest against your back.

“I was wondering if—” you say, suddenly nervous, panicked. Your heart races in your chest and you hope he can’t hear it.

“Shh,” he says. “Go to sleep.”

“But I—”

“Sleep.” He presses a kiss to the back of your neck, so softly you wonder if you imagined it.

“I’m still in love with you, you know.” It’s a last resort, your final attempt.

He tenses against you, pulling away a few centimetres that feel as long as kilometres.

Silence.

You don’t say anything either, wishing you could swallow the words again. Now that they’re free, they seem to echo around the room.

You feel like you should know the sound of finality when you hear it.

\--

_One thousand and seventy-five. One thousand and seventy-six._

You count the seconds until his breathing slows.

_One thousand and seventy-seven. One thousand and seventy-eight._

You wait for the telltale little sigh, the shift to slow inhalations and steady breaths ghosting hot across the back of your neck. You shiver.

_One thousand and seventy-nine. One thousand and eighty._

You count down another hundred, just to be sure, before you remove his arm from around your waist. You keep your movements small to avoid jarring him. 

As you set his arm down you will him to wake up. You want him to reach out for you, to tug you down and tell you that everything hadn’t been a lie all this time.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he shifts in his sleep, mumbling something incoherent at the loss of warmth before he wraps his legs around the duvet you had left bunched next to him. You don’t reach out to stroke his hair away from his eyes, but you want to.

Your clothes are scattered around the room, but you find them easily once your eyes adjust to the darkness. In the faint light spilling from the door to the bathroom, you pull on your pants and shirt, fingers struggling with the buttons. You don’t look back at him, because you know if you do he will draw you back to him as he always does.

He looks most vulnerable when he sleeps, and the fragility he keeps at bay spills over to create cracks upon the surface of his skin. You find him most beautiful when he looks broken down. Maybe it’s because of what he does to you. You can’t decide if that’s a good enough excuse to keep letting him.

You wonder if you have the strength to really go through with this.

One last adjustment to the sleeve of your button-down shirt has you ready and moving out the door. You suck in a breath through your teeth and hold it there as you exit, carefully closing the door behind you. The latch shuts with a click.

You exhale, then walk to the elevator through a hallway carpeted in plush red. Crystal light fixtures hang from the walls, eerily dazzling, but you take no notice. It’s all starting to look the same to you. He has always been overly fond of upscale hotels.

A push of the down button summons an elevator immediately. You climb in without looking back. He’s still back in that bed anyway, and you see no point in wishing now for something that isn’t going to happen.

Well, you think, at least you finally had the courage to break it off. Right now you feel as though you will be strong enough to say no next time.

As you watch the city lights outside blur through the glass walls around you, you feel a little like a spy on the run, a professional escape artist.

It’s a small consolation for the ache in your chest.


End file.
